


Comparative Thaumaturgy

by WynCatastrophe



Category: Doctrine of Labyrinths - Sarah Monette
Genre: Adventure, F/M, Gen, Mystery, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-08
Updated: 2012-05-30
Packaged: 2017-10-21 04:14:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WynCatastrophe/pseuds/WynCatastrophe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We’d been living out in the country for the better part of an indiction before Felix started to show serious signs that he was bored to tears.  I was actually kind of liking the peace and quiet, but I guess I should've known that couldn't last long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. what i've been trying to be lately

**Author's Note:**

> I can't help feeling that Felix would find trouble no matter where they put him. So I'm experimenting with something here. Some canon characters, some original characters, and a mystery that I fully confess, I have not solved yet …
> 
> Oh. And a DISCLAIMER: Doctrine of Labyrinths and all its wonderful characters of course belong to Sarah Monette. This story is purely a work of fan fiction for my own indulgence, and I am not making any profit from it.

Chapter One 

 

 

[ ~ ]  _Mildmay_ [ ~ ]

 

We’d been living out in the country for the better part of an indiction before Felix started to show serious signs that he was bored to tears.  He’d been doing better, trying hard to learn how to talk to people without _flaying_ them, and it hadn’t always _worked_ \- I mean, he backslid a lot, because you don’t unlearn a whole lifetime’s worth of bad habits in a hurry - but I could tell he was making the effort, and that was good enough to get by on.  Only now he was getting restless, and even though he hadn’t given up trying, he couldn’t quite make himself behave civil.  I know how that goes, when something starts to itching under your skin, where you can’t quite get at it.  So I was mostly sort of leaning away from him, trying to give him some space to work it out for himself, and at the same time I was kind of sorting through our options, trying to find something that might take care of Felix’s restless itch without getting him run out on a rail, when the Rileys showed up. 

 

I’d heard that a little bitty estate, off to the west of Kay’s new property, belonged to some kind of a hocus, a fellow who was pretty much a hermit, so I’d hadn’t met him before.  But now the hocus was dead, kind of unexpectedly, along of him not being all that old.  But it didn’t look like nobody suspected foul play, just rotten luck - the only other soul that went near the place was some poor female relation who lived with him, and everybody pretty well agreed that _she_ didn’t have no reason to be getting rid of him. 

 

We all went to the funeral, along of Lady Vanessa wanting to show respect, and that’s where we met the Rileys.  

 

It was the local custom to have the close family line up near the remains so guests at the funeral could go by and say whatever the fuck people say at funerals - all that shit about how sorry you are, even though it don’t make nothing better.  But the only two people lined up like that here were a short, stocky kind of guy with glasses and a real young woman who had to be the poor relation, because there wasn’t nobody else there who could have been her.  But, I mean, she didn’t _look_ like I figured a poor relation might.  Her clothes weren’t fancy, but they were in good shape and they fit her okay.  And she was too good-looking: she had that same blue-black hair and dead white skin as Kolkhis, and even though her eyes were red from crying, and even though I was seeing them through that weird piece of black netting flashie ladies sometimes wear at funerals - I could still see she had the kind of sharp, beautiful face that an old-fashioned court sculptor would go mad for.  Seemed to me like she was too pretty to stay anybody’s poor relation for long, but that just goes to show what I know. 

 

Her name was Vesper Riley, and it turned out she was the dead guy’s niece.  The guy standing next to her - and not in no happy way, neither, but then he was at a funeral, so that kind of made sense - was the hocus’s nephew, but not the girl’s brother - he didn’t have the same last name as the hocus and Miss Riley, anyhow.  His name was Charles Clayborne Dover, and nobody (Lady Vanessa told us later) had seen him in indictions.  The way Miss Riley was standing, just about as far from her cousin as she could get without making it an issue, said as how he could have stayed away, for all of her. 

 

But Miss Riley was quiet and polite to Felix and me, and if Mr. Dover didn’t quite know what to make of our red hair, he didn’t have nothing to say about it.  

 

After the funeral, there was a kind of a party - a somber thing, where everybody stood around and ate little sandwiches and tried to say nice things about the dead guy.  I figured it was just one of those things people come up with sometimes, to try and keep the family from having to go home alone right after they’ve said goodbye, but in this case it was kind of hard because nobody had known Mr. Riley all that well.  

 

Miss Riley got loose of her cousin and kind of finagled her way around to where Felix was gathering a crowd of admirers, and I was standing against the wall, trying not to get in nobody’s way.  She just stood there on the outside of Felix’s circle, looking uncomfortable - you could tell she was pretty shy, and also not the kind of gal who spent a lot of time hanging around guys like Felix - until I kind of nodded at her.  Then she ducked around the edges of Felix’s growing ring of sycophants - that was a word I’d learned from Felix, no big surprise, and it fit - and held out her hand. 

 

“Mr. Foxe,” she said, giving me a kind of solemn smile.  “Thank you again for coming.” 

 

I took her hand and shook it.  “Sorry ‘bout your uncle.” 

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.” 

 

She didn’t get it that time, either, and at first I thought she was putting on, but then I figured maybe nobody could fake the color red she was turning.  

 

“I’m _really_ sorry,” she said again, looking kind of embarrassed and kind of stubborn.  “Could you please ... say it slower?” 

 

So I tried again, as slow and clear as I could make it, just this side of making fun.  But she heard me right, because her shoulders straightened out and she looked a little brighter and a little sadder, all at once. 

 

“Thank you,” she said, and it sounded real.  “I don’t imagine he will be _widely_ missed, but those who know him well will feel the loss deeply.”  She smiled at me again, even with her eyes looking sad.  “He would have been fascinated to meet travelers like yourself and Virtuer Harrowgate. I think I heard you come all the way from Marathat?” 

 

“Yeah,” I said. 

 

She looked at me kind of funny, like she was expecting me to say something else, and then finally she gave up and said, “That must have been quite the journey.” 

 

“Yeah,” I said; but now I was teasing her a little. 

 

One corner of her mouth kind of twitched, and I knew she got it, even if she didn’t want to think it was funny.  Then she glanced at my cane and sort of jerked her chin toward the door.  “There are some chairs in the hallway, if you’d like to sit down.” 

 

“I’m fine, thanks.”  

 

“I could bring -” 

 

“I said I’m fine.”  I had a fuck of a time with some of those consonants, but she heard me okay. 

 

“All right,” she said.  “But can I get you a plate?  Or something to drink?”  And I must have looked at her funny, because she turned red again, right up to the roots of her black hair.  

 

She wouldn’t look me in the eye, but she did lay her hand on my arm and give it a little squeeze.  “Well, if you decide you want anything, just let me know, all right?” 

 

She left me alone, then, and powers, I didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry. 

 

[ ~ ]  _Felix_ [ ~ ]

 

I had an unexpectedly nice time at the funeral proceedings.  It was good to be in company - I had not realized, until this afternoon, how badly I had missed gatherings of more than, as Mildmay would have said, a double septad people.  It was nice to mingle, even under sober circumstances. 

 

I had never met the deceased man, but if the girl he had raised was any indication, I thought I would have liked him very well.  Vesper Riley was courteous, intelligent, and possessed of an air of resolve that lent a quiet dignity to her grief.  I liked her immediately. 

 

I liked her even more by contrast to her cousin, Mr. Riley’s other surviving relative.  They did not share a last name, as they were the offspring of different siblings; Charles Clayborne Dover was as cogent an indictment of his upbringing as Miss Riley was a credit to hers.  He was posturing and - what I disliked more - obsequious with it.  He discovered early that I had not only attained the rank of Virtuer, but was in fact a _famous_ Virtuer, having (more from necessity than from desire) dealt with the both the Automaton of Corybant and the monster under Summerdown.  His delight in making my acquaintance was almost unseemly, and had nothing to do with me personally.  

 

“I hear they’re _still_ studying that Automaton you destroyed,” he declaimed, having - much against my pleasure - shouldered his way into the small circle of acquaintances with whom I had been conversing. 

 

“I did not destroy it,” I replied evenly, determined to be polite since it was, after all, his uncle’s funeral.  “Merely incapacitated it.” 

 

Dover was not remotely deterred by my correction.  “I’d love to take a look at that monster,” he informed me.  “It must have been a fantastic piece of work in its day.  I suppose you keep up with those Institution fellows who’re working on it, hey?” 

 

I thought of Hutch and Corbie and John Ashmead with a pulse of something too warm to be regret.  “As a member of the Institution, I correspond with Virtuer Hutchence on occasion,” I answered, bland as milk.  

 

“Fantastic!” Dover asserted expansively.  “That must be something.  You know, I’d love to take a look at what they’re doing with it sometime.”  He was plainly angling for my encouragement, but I saw no reason to give it, nor was it truly mine to give.  I wholeheartedly supported Hutch’s interest in the project, but nothing could induce me to go near that monster again.  

 

“Virtuer Hutchence is very thorough,” I said, still blandly unhelpful. 

 

“Ah ... yes, quite.  Quite.  I’ve heard good things about him, very good things.  D’you know, he published a pamphlet on -” 

 

“Excuse me,” I said, smiling brightly.  “I see someone I must speak to.” 

 

I escaped, but before I could settle into conversation with the local intended - my original, though unworthy, scheme - Miss Riley materialized beside me.  Thanks to my bad eye, I was unaware of her until she spoke - addressing the intended, not me, offering to fetch him a plate of food or a refill for his drink.  The intended, a slight, smiling man named Conrad, declined, with the further observation that she was surey permitted to take the evening off from taking care of everybody. 

 

I turned in time to catch Miss Riley in my field of vision as she received this gentle admonition, but if I had hoped to learn anything of substance, I was disappointed.  The bereaved niece regarded the intended with a fond, if somewhat weary, grin.  “Anything for a distraction,” she said with determined cheer. 

 

“From loss of family or excess of it?” the intended asked her pointedly, and Vesper huffed out something between a laugh and a sigh. 

 

“Both,” she acknowledged.  “I haven’t had time to really _miss_ Uncle Mathias yet, but Charles is here _now_.”  She grimaced.  “And he keeps lecturing me on the proper comportment of poor relations, which does not make for relaxing conversation.” 

 

“Oh dear,” said the intended.  “Do you think it would do him any good to receive a lecture or two himself?” 

 

“In one ear, out the other,” Vesper answered promptly.  And then, turning to me: “What about you, Virtuer Harrowgate?  Can I get you anything?” 

 

“I’m already quite well-stocked,” I answered, lifting my mostly-full cup as evidence.  “Thank you anyway.” 

 

She nodded her acknowledgement and then encompassed us both in a quick wave of her hand.  “And you two already know each other? I don’t need to make introductions?” 

 

“Virtuer Harrowgate is an all-too-infrequent visitor to Our Lady of the Shining Path,” the intended observed.  “Like your uncle, he more often finds himself consumed with his studies.” 

 

“Really?” Vesper’s eyes grew a little brighter.  “That seems to be a common traint amongst magicians.  Me, I am there almost whenever the doors open - though not, I fear, out of any exceptional sense of devotion.” 

 

“No?” I asked, and got a rueful grin for my trouble. 

 

“I’m afraid my excitement at getting out of the house too often overwhelms my religion,” she confessed candidly. 

 

It was easy to see how a life of such strict retirement as Mathias Riley had maintained might provide few suitable outlets for a sociable young woman.  The company in the neighborhood was not at all diverse; and in the shabby gentility of Riley House I thought I could glimpse a further impediment to Miss Riley’s social pretensions, modest though they might be. 

 

“Don’t be so quick to discount yourself from the ranks of scholars,” the intended teased her; and said to me, “Miss Vesper always liked to keep up with her uncle’s studies.  She must be the best-read young woman in the duchy.” 

 

Vesper blushed very prettily; I said, “Have you intentions of attending the University in Esmer?” 

 

Miss Riley nodded.  “My uncle planned to send me, once he’d finished his book.  He had a little money set aside to help.” 

 

Vesper’s tone gave nothing away, but I could read between the lines easily enough: whatever Mathias Riley had set aside, there was no surety that there would be anything left for his niece’s education after the accounts had been settled in the wake of his death.  It was a painfully common story; but if she could get as far as the University, then I thought the chances of a young woman as bright as Vesper promised to be looked very fair.  “What was the book?” I asked. 

 

“It’s a study of comparative thaumaturgy,” Miss Riley answered.  “Uncle Mathias was trying to analyze all the different metaphors of aether in the descendants of Cymellune to try and discover whether they had any common root.  I hope to put his notes in order and publish it for him - it’s just archival research, no reason an annemer can’t do it.”  She cast a quick eye over my tattoos and added, “We have a bit of material on Cabaline wizardry, if you’d care to take a look.  It’s mostly hearsay, of course.” 

 

I did not think her invitation as innocent or as spontaneous as she tried to make it sound, and I was deadly tired of discussing Cabaline practice, particularly when I knew from painful experience that much of it was misguided.  On the other hand, I was curious to see what Mathias Riley’s description of magic in the Mirador might look like, and here was Vesper, offering to show me without any of the usual jealous hesitancy that occurs between wizards.  I wasn’t sure whether to credit her youth or the fact that she was annemer, but it was certainly refreshing.

 

And the desire to see Mr. Riley’s research won out.  “Of course,” I said.  “I’d be happy to take a look.” 

 

“Would you like to come now?” Miss Riley inquired.  “The notes are in the library, and I could gather them for you to take home and peruse later.” 

 

I was a little taken aback by her precipitateness, and I hardly knew her well enough to judge whether it was habitual or not.  But she was, so far as I could tell, quite artlessly sincere, and I could not suspect her of anything other than the same sort of urgency which afflicts scholars in general and young ones in particular. 

 

“That sounds delightful,” I said, and followed Vesper as she led the way out of the spacious parlor, down a short hall, to stop at a heavy-looking wooden door.  She pushed, but neither the handle nor the pressure of her shoulder did any good.  “ _Charles_ ,” she said in exasperation.  “He keeps going around the house and locking things up with spells.”  She glanced back at me, her fine features illuminated by a wall-sconce by the door.  “Is there any chance you could get it open?” 

 

“Should I?” I asked. 

 

“You’ll have to if you want to see my uncle’s notes,” Vesper pointed out, managing to keep her voice pretty calm.  “I don’t know what Charles thinks he’s doing, anyway.  I’ve lived here for the last sixteen years - it’s far too late to try and keep me out, and there’s nothing here worth hiding in any case.”  

 

“Maybe he’s just trying to bully you,” I suggested, and saw Vesper’s grimace heightened by the lamp’s shadows. 

 

“Maybe,” she conceded.  “That does sound like Charles.  Look, if you don’t want to try the door, I can -” 

 

“No,” I said.  I was almost afraid to know what it was Miss Riley thought she could do - my imagination conjured an appalling image of her rappelling down the side of the building in her black funeral dress.  It was incongruous, but not, I thought, impossible.  Miss Riley carried herself with an air of resourcefulness that reminded me, with a swift pang, of Mehitabel Parr.  And perhaps it was the thought of Mehitabel that made me say, “I can get around the wards.” 

 

“Oh, good,” Vesper said, and stepped back to let me work. 

 

I got the door open all right, and let Vesper lead the way inside.  There was just enough illumination from the twilight beyond the windows to show a small, shabby room crammed full of books.  Vesper struck a lucifer and lit a lamp on the table, sending shadows dancing away to tease the edges of the bookshelves and flirt with the stacks of books that straggled in tidy disorder along every available space. 

 

“As libraries go, it isn’t much,” Vesper admitted.  “But I’ve always loved this room.  It _smells_ of learning, if you know what I mean.” 

 

I did know.  The room was redolent with the peculiar scent of books, the lingering aura of ink and parchment.  And if such a room in the Mirador might have carried the psychic stench of mikkary, Mathias Riley’s library was surely the opposite: a wholesome reservoir of clairant energy. 

 

I smiled at Vesper.  “Your uncle must have been a very fine man.” 

 

Her answering smile was not wide, but _strong_ , and peaceful despite her grief.  “He was.”  She trailed her fingers over the scarred desktop.  “Wherever he’s gone, I know it’s a better place.” 

 

I had learned stoicism from the Lower City and ritual grief from the Mirador; but Vesper’s _acceptance_ was something I had not encountered before, and I could not tell whether it was peculiar to her or the natural result of whatever religious teachings she followed, either her uncle’s or the local intended’s.  I said, “I’m sure you’ll miss him.” 

 

“Yes,” said Vesper.  “It doesn’t quite seem real yet.  Even at the funeral today, I caught myself thinking, ‘I’ll have to tell Uncle Mathias ...’ and then I’d remember that I can’t tell Uncle Mathias anything.  Not in this life, anyway.” 

 

“I’m sorry,” I said futilely.  

 

“Thank you.”  Vesper moved behind the desk to open a draw and withdraw a stack of papers.  “But I believe you were interested in our notes.” 

 

She began sifting through the papers, presumably looking for the information on Cabalines, but something in her phrasing struck me as odd.  “You said ‘our?’” 

 

“Mmm?” said Vesper absently.  “Oh ... yes.  I’ve been my uncle’s research assistant these last few years, and I suppose I’ve gotten in the habit of treating his work as mine, too.”  She grimaced.  “Cousin Charles has been rather appalled at the notion of what he calls a ‘woman researcher,’ but I think it should prove good practice for the University.” 

 

“I’ve been surprised there aren’t more women in the Institution,” I said, because Cousin Charles sounded like a dangerous topic.  “Though if you’re annemer I suppose that won’t mean much to you.” 

 

“No.”  Miss Riley paused, her eyes going distant as she considered the problem.  “It’s a little odd.  With the prevalence of devotion to Our Lady, one would think Corambins would present quite a matriarchal culture, and yet it’s the other way around.”  She frowned at nothing, lost in thought - but this was a tendency shared by wizard and annemer academics alike, and I was not bothered by it.  “I wonder if it has anything to do with the thamaturgical reforms in the last war.  They do say - though I have never seen any proof - that the bulk of the Mulkists were women.” 

 

“Can you think of any reason why that would be true?” I asked her. 

 

She frowned again, thinking hard.  “Maybe,” she said slowly.  “It’s more like I can find _too many_ reasons why it might be true.  It could be men had a better shot of going north to pursue learning in the Institution.  Or it could be because Mulkism gave women their only real chance at power.  And it could be that people made a bigger fuss of women Mulkists _because_ they had power.  But I’m not sure it really matters.” 

 

“I’m sorry?” I said, because she’d lost me. 

 

“Maybe it doesn’t matter whether the Mulkists really were mostly women,” Vesper answered carefully.  “What matters is that people _say_ they were.  And if that’s what they believe, then of course they are going to be wary of female magicians.”

 

“Oh,” I said.  It did make a certain kind of sense.  “Yes, I suppose so.” 

 

“Anyway.”  Vesper pulled a sheaf of papers from the stack and handed them to me.  “That’s everything either of us could find on Cabaline practice, and I would not be surprised if half of it were untrue.”  She shuddered delicately.  “You don’t even _want_ to know the sort of stuff I found on Eusebians.” 

 

She mispronounced it; I corrected her and then said, “If it’s about the Eusebians, and it’s unpleasant, it’s probably true.” 

 

Miss Riley’s eyebrows went up.  “That sounds like the voice of experience speaking.” 

 

I opened my mouth to deflect her curiosity, then remembered that I had nothing to hide any longer.  “My lover was an escapee from the Bastion before he was killed.” 

 

“Oh, no,” Vesper said, her eyes going wide with sympathy.  “I’m so sorry.” 

 

I shrugged uncomfortable.  “It was a long time ago.”  A couple of years, very likely.  I steadfastly refused to engage in the morbid practice of counting up the days since Gideon had died.  That was no fit way to remember his life. 

 

“I’m still sorry,” Vesper said, and I knew she meant it. 

 

“Well,” I said, and glanced at the papers in my hand, “I’ll get these back to you soon, shall I?” 

 

“Please,” said Vesper.  “I’ll be coming up to Grimglass to attend a special service on Mercoledy.  I could stop by and save you a trip, if that’s not too soon?” 

 

“Mercoledy,” I agreed, and if Vesper's smile didn't exactly light up the room, it certainly made the shadows more pleasant.    


	2. and watch the sun sink like a stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doctrine of Labyrinths and its wonderful characters belong entirely to Sarah Monette. I'm just yearning to play with Mildmay and Felix & Company, and I'm not making any profit from the resultant work of fan fiction. Chapter title from "Long Ride Home" by Patty Griffin.

**CHAPTER TWO**

 

 

**{~}** _**Felix** _ **{~}**

 

Charles Clayborne Dover did not fail to notice that I had returned to the parlor carrying a quire of papers.  It crossed my mind that he might object - since he had, after all, locked the room from which I had retrieved them.  But I need not have worried: very far from preventing me, Dover wasted no time in attempting (however implausibly) to persuade me that it was all his own idea. 

 

“Virtuer Harrowgate!” he exclaimed with enthusiasm more appropriate to greeting a friend of several decades than an acquaintance of several minutes.  “I see my cousin has remembered to introduce you to my uncle’s collection.  You have found something to you liking, I hope?” 

 

“I will be better able to answer that once I have read it,” I pointed out. 

 

“Oh, of course, of course!  Take all the time you need!” 

 

I opened my mouth to explain that I had already made arrangements with Vesper for returning the materials, but then I remembered the tightness in Miss Riley’s face when she spoke of Cousin Charles and thought better of it.  I did not want more of Dover’s company than I could avoid, and Vesper would not thank me for speaking to him of her affairs, even if they were not truly secret.  “Thank you,” I said instead. 

 

“Which - ah - which particular volume is that, hey?” 

 

This proved, without the need for further evidence, that he was manifestly unfamiliar with contents of his uncle’s library.  The quire was labeled, in a close, neat hand I suspected of being Vesper’s, but more than that, its cover was etched over in a very detailed, surprisingly accurate map of Mélusine.  It was distinctive. 

 

I was tempted to lie and say that it was, in fact, an early edition of a novel called _Enkidu_ , but the truth was easier and would incite fewer questions. 

 

“I believe it is a collection of information regarding Cabaline practice,” I answered, baring my teeth at him.  “Naturally, I am interested.” 

 

“Oh, naturally, naturally!” Dover rubbed his hands together with a combination of glee and nervousness, equally ill-concealed.  “My cousin being annemer, you know, she would not understand the intricacies of ... but if you would like a tour of my uncle’s collection, I should be very happy to -” 

 

“Thank you,” I said repressively, “but I really must be getting my brother home.” 

 

I felt a twinge of conscience at making Mildmay my excuse; he would not like it, and did not deserve the light in which it cast him.  But his bad leg was at least an obvious excuse for departure, and one not many would feel inclined to argue with. I remembered only after I had (finally) disentangled myself from Doer that we had come with Lady Vanessa and Kay in their carriage, and were therefore not at liberty to depart at our own choosing. 

 

I sought out Mildmay, hoping vaguely that he might have a solution to our predicament, and found him by the sound of his slurred speech, talking with Kay.  That part was not surprising, as he and the new Warden of Grimglass had been very well pleased with each other’s company these last several months.  It _was_ a little surprising to see Vesper standing with them; she had managed to get there in a hurry, and I felt uncomfortably anticipated. 

 

“Mildmay,” I said, keeping my voice low, “try to look as though your leg is hurting.” 

 

Mildmay gave me a look that I had no doubt he would have called ‘the hairy eyeball.’  “Why?” 

 

“It’s a long story,” I said, “but I’m afraid it’s hurting you so badly that we may have to leave early.” 

 

“Figures,” Mildmay said.

 

“Jasper,” said Kay, “go find Lady Vanessa and -” 

 

“Your pardon,” Vesper interrupted, “but there is no need to disturb her.  If Mr. Foxe’s leg is hurting him, we have a spare room where he can lie down and rest it.” 

 

Annoyed at her refusal to take my (rather obvious) cue, I frowned at her.  “Thank you, but I am afraid Mr. Foxe will be much more comfortable at home.” 

 

Vesper grimaced.  “If you are certain ...” 

 

“I am,” I answered firmly. 

 

“All right,” Vesper said.  “Only - half a moment, let me fetch something.” 

 

She moved with swift, economical grace, disappearing from sight and returning before Jasper could even make his way across the room to inform Lady Vanessa of our change in plans. 

 

“Here,” she said breathlessly, pressing a small jar into Mildmay’s hand.  “It’s for aches and pains,” she explained, clearly eager to please.  “My uncle swears - I mean, he _used_ to swear - by it.  Rub it in well, twice a day. It should help.” 

 

“Yeah,” Mildmay said, “but this is just Felix’s way of -” 

 

“You said it hurts all the time,” Vesper reminded him.  “And it’s not like Uncle Mathias needs it now.” 

 

“Right,” I said, to forestall any further discussion of the subject.  And Jasper, showing a remarkably fortuitous sense of timing, appeared at my elbow. 

 

“Lady Vanessa is coming, Kay.”  He gave my brother an apologetic look, though he had to know it was a ruse as much as Vesper did.  “It might be a little while.” 

 

“We will wait in the carriage,” I announced.  

 

“Of course,” said Vesper.  “Let me help you.” 

 

Mildmay played his part well, leaning heavily on Miss Riley’s arm as we descended the front steps and letting his cane _thunk_ more rather more loudly than usual.  It served our ruse well, and I also thought it did not displease Vesper Riley.  She stayed very close to Mildmay all the way to the carriage, and when Mildmay pulled away from her to get in, there was a softness about her mouth as she bid him good evening that I thought had not been there earlier.  

 

“All right, then,” she said, handing Jashuki up as we settled in together.  “Until Mercoledy.  It was good to meet you, Virtuer Harrowgate, Mr. Foxe.”  I heard Vanessa Brightmore’s voice raised behind her, followed by Charles Dover’s, and saw Vesper grimace.  “I’d better go take care of Charles.  Good night!” 

 

Mildmay shifted in his seat to give me a glare.  “What was that all about?” 

 

“It would seem that Miss Riley is exerting all of her considerable energy to prevent Mr. Dover from making an ass of himself,” I said. 

 

Mildmay snorted.  “She’s got her work cut out there,” he said.  “What’s in them papers?” 

 

“Hocus-stuff,” I answered, just to annoy him.  “It’s a collection of notes, by Miss Riley and her late uncle, on Cabaline wizardry. She invited me to take a look, and I said yes.”  I noticed that the look he was giving me had gotten darker.  “What?” 

 

“Have you ever seen a hornet’s nest without you stuck your nose in it?” he demanded truculently.  “It’s plan as beeswax there’s bad blood in this, or about to be.” 

 

“What?” I said, startled.  “I didn’t sense any -” 

 

“You don’t got to let your magic do the thinking for you,” Mildmay told me, plainly disgusted.  He sounded the way he did when he thought I was exhibiting a greater than usual lack of common sense.  “That Mr. Dover ain’t been up this way for indictions, and now here he is, acting like he owns the place?  And Miss Riley may _look_ all sweet and shy, but she ain’t going down without a fight.  She’s got it written all over her.” 

 

I could not argue with his assessment of either cousin.  Charles Dover was assuredly obnoxious, and I suspected he would prove grasping, as well; it seemed unlikely that his return to Riley House in time for the funeral rites was motivated by intemperate affection for an uncle he had not seen in years.  And as for Miss Riley, I thought Mildmay’s description incisive: she was a deceptively delicate flower, and _ain’t going down without a fight_ was a pithy, if ungrammatical, way of explaining her air of determination.  I said, “Well, we have managed to escape Mr. Dover for the evening, and I have no quarrel with Miss Riley.”  If her aim was - as I thought it might be - to rid the neighborhood of her odious cousin as expeditiously as possible, I wished her heartily well in it.  

 

Mildmay gave me a  
  
mulish look, but Kay and Vanessa were approaching, and he held his tongue. 

 

[~]

 

I found the collected notes on Cabaline practice entertaining, rather than offensive, despite their frequent inaccuracies; they were not insightful, but given the nature of the enterprise - the gathering of information that precedes analysis - I was not greatly surprised.  There were a good many errors, which I corrected on separate sheets of paper, tucked between the pages of the quire.  But in spite of the preponderance of misinformation, I could tell that this work was the result of careful research, the sources scrupulously documented with not only titles but the dates and places where they had been found.  And I could not deny that the Rileys had been wide-ranging in their quest for information; the notes included several recountings of novel plots that Vesper had heard from enthusiasts of the book craze; she had credited her informants, recorded the substance of their words - along with summaries of the published books, whenever she could find them - and then not infrequently offered commentary on the incongruities of these accounts, which were legion.  I did not know her well, but ventured to guess that Uncle Mathias would find traces of sarcastic humor beneath the words. 

 

There were passages written by Mathias, as well, in a sprawling, spidery script decidedly unlike his niece’s round hand.  These were less inclined to editorializing, but lacked the sense of vitality that permeated Vesper’s work.  Each entry was signed, rather unnecessarily, with their initials, M.R. or V. R., depending; and in the end I wrote a five-page history of the Cabal’s rise to power that skimmed very lightly over the details and instead explained some of the ramifications, for Marathat, of the Virtu’s creation, destruction, and repair.  I tucked the notes into the back of the quire and signed them F.H., as a surprise for Vesper.  

 

She could use a happy surprise, I thought. 

  


[~]

 

Vesper did visit the lighthouse on Mercoledy as planned, but she brought with her the indefatigable Charles, whose presence was an innovation I could not approve, and they arrived just enough in advance of the lunch hour that courtesy demanded I invite them to stay and take the meal with us.  I knew that Mildmay would have laughed at my scruples, after all the times I had flouted the conventions of politeness before, and if it had been only Charles Dover I might have stared him down until he gave up waiting for an invitation and took himself back to whatever rock he had crawled out from under; but I could not do it to Vesper.  

 

Soon after we had taken up residence in the keeper's living quarters, Mildmay had come to an arrangement with one of the young women of the neighborhood; three days a week she came in to clean, cook, and gather our laundry, and in return we paid her … I didn't really know how much, but suspected Mildmay of being more generous than he would have liked to admit.  We were lucky in that today was one of those days; I instructed Mildmay to advise Sadie that we would be needing two extra places at lunch, and set myself to the task of manufacturing something like polite conversation.

 

**{~}** _**Mildmay** _ **{~}**

 

Lunch was just fucking awful.  I don’t like having people watch me eat, along of the scar that twists my mouth all to hell and back, and I didn’t exactly love the company we were having, either.  But Felix picked right then to go all soft and tender-hearted, and refused to send Miss Riley away with her fathead of a cousin.  It was even kind of nice of him, except for the part where I hated the fuck out of it. 

 

Felix and Mr. Dover - the fathead - between them kept up not just their own ends of the conversation but enough for five or six others if you spread it around a little, so I didn’t see no reason why anybody else had to try and talk, but I guess Miss Vesper didn’t see it that way.  The best thing I can figure is, she felt like she had to try and include me in the conversation somehow.  So every time she could get a word in edgewise, she’d jump in there and ask me a question.  And, you know, I could kind of see how she thought she was trying to be nice, but the thing was, I didn’t _want_ to be included, and even if I had, the questions she asked were the kind I didn’t have no good answers to. 

 

The first thing she tried was: “So

, Mr. Foxe, what did you do in Marathat?” 

 

There were about a septad answers to that, none of them good.  I gave her the easiest one: “Cat-burglar.”  It wasn’t all I’d been, and it sure as fuck wasn’t the ugliest, but it was the last thing I’d been before everything went all to fuck. 

 

Felix gave me the hairy eyeball - Kethe knows what he wanted me to say instead, but there wasn’t no point in lying about it - and Miss Vesper looked kind of startled, like she wasn’t sure whether to believe me; but she got her shit together in a hurry and said, “Is that - uh- a common profession in Marathat?” 

 

“More than it ought to be,” I said, and that made her laugh.

 

So we got through lunch, and it wasn’t no picnic even if Vesper worked hard not to ask no more awkward questions - she kept asking me stuff, but it was all about what I’d thought of Esmer and was I enjoying country life and had I explored the rock garden?  And I didn’t like having to talk, but she was trying so hard, I kind of felt sorry for her. 

 

I hated the fuck out of it anyway. 

 

After lunch, we went back to the main room, which I guessed was kind of a parlor, and I thought maybe Felix would work up to giving them their papers back and we could get rid of Mr. Blowhard Dover and his too-pretty-for-her-own-good niece.  But Felix just kept chatting away, charming as you please, and then finally Miss Riley looked out the window and said, kind of shaky, “That’s a lovely garden walk.” 

 

That took me by surprise, because it didn’t have nothing to do with the conversation and I’d kind of thought she was working herself up to tell Charles they needed to go, which this wasn’t even close to doing.  But Felix jumped on it like a terrier on a rat. 

 

“Oh, we enjoy it,” he said, giving them both his five-alarm smile.  “Mildmay!  Why don’t you take Miss Riley out and show her the garden?  I’m sure she could use the fresh air.” 

 

“Oh no!” said Miss Vesper, and blushed like a bride.  “I - I mean, I shouldn’t want to put you out, Mr. - Mr. Foxe.” 

 

“‘S okay,” I said, because I figured Felix had some kind of a plan.  And it _was_.  I mean, I didn’t have no particular wish to be walking a bourgeois lady around in our little overgrown mess of a garden, but I couldn’t see as how it was any worse than sitting there and listening to her cousin and Felix go at it.  So I got up and got myself balanced, and gave Miss Riley my arm, along of how I’d seen enough flashies out strolling around to know that was how it was done.  It wasn’t nothing special, and I had to hold Jashuki in my other hand to do it, but we made out all right until we got to the front door. 

 

In flashie houses, there’s always a butler or somebody standing around waiting to open the door for you.  It was the same way out at Grimglass, up at the manor house where Kay and Lady Vanessa lived. But out at the lighthouse, in the keeper’s cottage, it was just me and Felix, and sometimes the local girl we hired to come in and do the cooking and stuff, if it was one of her days.  But she was out back taking care of the washing, and she wasn’t the door-opening kind of servant, anyway.  I was about to try and tuck Jashuki into my elbow so I could manage the door for Miss Riley, like the gentleman I was pretending to be, but she beat me to it.  Had herself untucked from my arm and the door open faster than I can tell it. 

 

“Please,” she said, smiling as she held the door for me. 

 

That made me mad at her.  There just wasn’t anything I hated worse than being treated like a crip, and never mind that I was one, whether I wanted to be treated like it or not.  I sort of snarled at her and went on through. 

 

There was this kind of an awkward pause, where I guess maybe she was trying to figure out what had my tail in a knot, and then she stepped out beside me and said - all bright and cheerful, like wasn’t nothing wrong - “Let’s defy convention. Trade places with me.”  And she sidled up on my left and slipped her hand around that elbow, and I saw what she wanted, which was to free up my right hand for Jashuki and make it look like it was all her own idea and she hadn’t even noticed my bad leg. 

 

She’d never make an actress, but she was doing her best, and, Kethe, it wasn’t _her_ fault I’d gotten a busted leg in a shipwreck with my crazy brother indictions before I even met her. 

 

So I let her hang on my left arm, and we wandered out to the garden, not talking much, along of not having anything to say, until we passed the window she’d seen the garden from in the first place.  Miss Riley kind of tilted her head at it and gave me a little half-assed snarky grin.  “So I guess we have at least one thing in common.” 

 

That’s the kind of thing folks say just so you’ll ask them what they mean.  It didn’t make me like her better, but I played along. 

 

“Matchmaking relatives,” she said, her grin getting bigger.  “Does Virtuer Harrowgate send you out on garden walks a lot?” 

 

Kethe, what a question.  I didn’t think Felix wanted me for himself no more, but all that meant was that now he just wasn’t paying attention.  I didn’t figure he’d go out of his way to set me up with a girl ... but then again, if it looked like a good chance for making fun of me, he might.  “Your cousin in a hurry to get you married off?” I asked, hoping to Kethe she wouldn’t see no reason to keep after that line of thinking. 

 

And that’s when it hit me that we’d started out thinking about different things, because of  course flashie ladies get _married_ , and the only thing I’m good for is fucking.  The kind of girl that would be getting married wouldn’t come within a septad-foot of this scar. 

 

But Vesper Riley didn’t look on like she’d noticed anything wrong.  “Lord, yes,” she said, and she was trying to sound lighthearted but I could tell it really bothered her.  “Cousin Charles is of the opinion that it’s the only decent path for a woman to take.” 

 

Well, that explained why she’d been looking at Mr. Dover like he was covered in poison ivy and growing more.  Miss Vesper Riley was young, and pretty, and even Felix thought she was kind of smart, so she could have had a lot going for her if her cousin could’ve got his head out of his ass for a minute.  “Seems like kind of a narrow way of seeing things,” I said. 

 

She made me repeat it twice, but when she got it she snorted, which I figured for agreement.  “That’s Charles,” she said.  “I want to go up to Esmer, to the university, and study to become a teacher myself.  But Charles considers me part of the estate, a piece of his inheritance.”  She sighed, and I could tell this was weighing on her pretty hard.  “Things may get better after the will has been read. _If_ we can find one.” 

 

“You mean there might not be one?” I said, and Vesper should her head. 

 

“My uncle was relatively young and in good health,” she said.  “It is entirely possible that he never drew one up.  In which case, the estate will go to the nearest male relative, and my fate will legally rest in Charles’s hands.” 

 

“So what’re you going to do?” 

 

“I’m sorry?” 

 

I said it again, slower. 

 

“I wish I knew.”  Miss Riley didn’t look at me as she said it, so I couldn’t really get a look at her face, but she sounded about as happy as a drowned puppy.  “The only thing I’m really trained for is academic work.  And no one is going to offer for me, so Charles is bound to be disappointed there.” 

 

“How d’you figure?” I had to repeat that one, too. 

 

“I’ve been out for three years,” she said, making a little gesture that sort of covered the whole area.  “if any of the local gentlemen had wanted me, they could have said so at any time.”  She made little huffing noise and shook her head.  “I won’t deceive you, Mr. Foxe.  I’m not much of a catch.  I have no fortune and no connections and I’m not at all handy about the house.  It’s the usual problem of the poor gentry: not qualified to marry either up _or_ down.” 

 

“Sounds uncomfortable,” I said, and Miss Riley laughed.  

 

“That’s one reason why I want to go to University,” she said.  “So I can avoid the problem.” 

 

“Yeah,” I said.  “But why don’t your cousin want you to go?” 

 

She waved a hand, sort of generally.  “Charles doesn’t believe in higher education for women,” she explained, and she was trying to make out like it wasn’t no big deal, but I could tell it rankled.  “He thinks our place is at home - even, apparently, when we don’t have one.  And I fancy he thinks it’s in poor taste for an orphan to have ambitions of any sort.” 

 

“He sounds like a piece of work,” I said, because that was true. 

 

“He hasn’t impressed me so far,” Miss Riley allowed.  “But until he came up for the funeral, I hadn’t met him above twice in my life.  Maybe he has hidden depths.” 

 

“Maybe,” I said, but I didn’t think it was fucking likely. 

 

Miss Riley started asking me about the garden then, and telling me the names of some of the plants we didn’t have in Marathat, and I got kind of comfortable, listening to her talk.  She had a nice voice, and she didn’t put on that high-pitched laugh like flashie ladies in Corambis mostly did. But the whole time I was thinking about how she’d said didn’t nobody want her, and wondering why that was.  Because, you know, maybe she didn’t have a fortune, or any connections, but from what I’d seen of flashies, a pretty girl can usually make do without either one if she tries hard enough.  

 

Which meant either Vesper was wrong, or she was lying, and there was some other reason not to marry her.  

 

Don’t go thinking, Milly-Fox. You’re liable to sprain something. 

  


But, you know, telling myself that didn’t stop me none. 

  



	3. lit up the world as i fell asleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doctrine of Labyrinths and its fabulous characters are the property of Sarah Monette. This story is purely a work of fan fiction, and I am not making any profit from it. Chapter Three title from Owl City.

CHAPTER THREE

 

[  ]  Vesper [  ]

 

There were people who might have called me unlucky.  I had been orphaned, at the tender age of two, by parents who had bequeathed to me nothing save the absurd monicker _Vesper_ ; I had been raised, following my progenitors’ untimely demise, by a hermetical and decidedly eccentric uncle, who knew nothing whatever about raising children; I had entered the marriage market, without fanfare - indeed with hardly a whisper - at fifteen, only to be (as I had long expected) soundly ignored; and now my uncle, the only family with whom I had even a passing acquaintance, had died unexpectedly in the middle of his sixth decade, leaving me altogether without substance.  

 

But in my own estimation the only item I had cause to well and truly rue was the last, my uncle’s death and my own consequent destitution.  I did not remember my parents well enough to miss them; my uncle’s methods of child-rearing had been unorthodox, but kind-hearted; and I had decided, not long after Uncle Mathias accepted me as his assistant, that I would pursue the life of a scholar, rather than that of a wife, and there was no room in the scope of a Corambin woman’s options to chose both.  Uncle Mathias had fought me at first, the only real arguments we had ever had; but when I was sixteen and he was determined to send me to Esmer for a Season, I said, “Save the money and send me to University instead,” and he had met my eyes and finally believed me. 

 

So nothing really terrible had happened in my life until I was eighteen, helping my uncle finish his book so I could go off to University and study history with a clear conscience, and then Uncle Mathias died of an annurism with no warning and I lost my family and my future, all at once. 

 

To say that I grieved would be misleading.  I did not take time for mourning, although I donned the habitual dress for it; I knew no amount of mourning would ever relieve my feelings.  One cannot count loss in days, when the loss is bound to shadow all the days that are left, as many as they may be.  There would never be a time when I no longer missed Uncle Mathias, so there seemed no point in going through the motions.  I carried on as best I could without him.  

 

Intended Conrad helped me plan the funeral.  Together we went through my uncle’s desk full of correspondence and sorted out the names and addresses of people who ought to be notified.  Chief among these were Aunt Calpurnia, whom I had never met, and her son Charles, who had visited us twice.  I did not like Charles, and I did not think that Uncle Mathias had liked his older sister, but Conrad and I were agreed that it would be petty not to tell them that my uncle, Calpurnia’s brother, had left this world behind.  I penned the letter, and Conrad sent it out with the mail. 

 

My cousin Charles arrived in time for the funeral rites. 

 

Without Conrad, I do not know how I would have survived the next few days.  I moved through the world in a haze of misery, only dimly aware of my surroundings.  I felt stunned, too overwhelmed by the suddenness of loss to truly comprehend my altered circumstances.  I knew, dully, that Charles was maneuvering for _something_ , but could hardly bestir myself to wonder what it was.  Conrad spent several weary days standing between me and Charles and arguing in my place.  It was a devotion he did not owe me, and which I could not hope to repay. 

 

It was Conrad who gave me a way of understanding my uncle’s death that enabled me to move on - not _past_ my grief, but _through_ it, accepting the inevitability of pain.  He said that losing someone close to use is like a soldier taking heavy wounds, or losing a limb, in battle; the loss is always there, but like a soldier, we can learn to carry on in spite of it.  Conrad told me to bear my wounds proudly - and because it was Conrad who said it, I did. 

 

It was in this frame of mind that I met Felix and Mildmay.  I did not know immediately how they could help me in my current predicament, nor any reason why they should choose to do so; but I grasped at once that Felix Harrowgate, as a famously idiosyncratic magician who enjoyed his own notoriety, had both the capacity to outface Charles and the personality to enjoy it.  It did not hurt that I found his brother staggeringly attractive.  

 

I did not let myself get distracted.  I ignored the rush of heat I felt when I glanced at Mildmay and concentrated on snagging his brother Harrowgate’s interest in my uncle’s studies.  This, it turned out, was an even better gambit than I had dared to hope: Felix’s enthusiasm for arcania rivaled even my uncle’s.  I kept enough presence of mind to let slip, casually, that I had been my uncle’s research assistant, and to set up a time to retrieve the notes, when I thought I could evade Charles. 

 

That was where my plan very nearly ran aground.  I failed entirely to escape my cousin’s notice on the appointed day, thanks to the well-meaning interference of our housekeeper, Mrs. Gibbs.  I ought to have remembered that Mrs. Gibbs had never approved of Uncle Mathias’s leniency in letting me go out alone, but in truth it had not occurred to me to count her as other than an ally.  I naively assumed that, because she loved me, she would do me no harm.  But we can always hurt the ones we love, and Mrs. Gibbs, believing she knew what was best for me, disclosed my plan for an outing to Charles, who of course found it as scandalous as Mrs. Gibbs that a woman should undertake to travel into the village and back by herself. 

 

So Charles determined to save my reputation by accompanying me, and would not be dissuaded.  I did have real business in the village - I had to return a book to Intended Conrad, and place our usual order at the grocer’s - and it was not so difficult, in the end, to suggest to Charles that we stop in at the lighthouse to see how Virtuer Harrowgate was getting along with Uncle Mathias’s notes, especially since (I did not say) Charles was at very great, though not very effective, pains to ingratiate himself with the former Cabaline. 

 

Felix rose to the occasion even more splendidly than I had hoped; he took one long, searching look at my own face and began making excuses for why he was not yet done with the notes.  He let Charles fall all over himself insisting that that the esteemed virtuer take all the time he needed, and then graciously wondered whether Charles might lend him my assistance later in the week, just for an afternoon, to help in sorting out the details. 

 

I was absurdly grateful to him.  Nothing was less likely than that Felix Harrowgate, foreign virtuer extraordinaire, would need my help in the slightest; but it was an excuse for me to spend a few hours out from under Charles’s scrutiny, and I took it with both hands.  I was likewise grateful for his offer of lunch, though it embarrassed me no end that Charles took it without even a token of protest, and the conversation was painful for everyone but my cousin even before I made the mistake of asking Mr. Foxe about his former profession. 

 

It was after lunch, when I knew we ought to be pulling ourselves together and taking our leave, that I committed my boldest transgression of the day, though it was inadvertently done.  I was sitting in the room Felix and Mildmay used as a parlor, listening miserably to Charles expound on the fiscal importance of magic - he wanted to sell it, or some such thing; I did not trouble myself to pay very close attention - when he paused for breath and I jumped in to change the subject, blurting the first remotely appropriate thought in my head: “What a lovely garden walk!” 

 

I had had nothing in mind, other than a rather urgent desire to disrupt Charles’s soliloquy; nobody could possibly have been enjoying it besides Charles himself.  But both Felix and my cousin seemed to take it as a sort of hint, and ushered me out on Mr. Foxe’s arm with such alacrity that I was left feeling rather breathless. 

 

I also felt guilty.  Whatever Mildmay Foxe had intended to do with his afternoon, I doubted it had included parading a debutante (rapidly approaching spinsterhood) around in the muggy air.  Conscious that this whole endeavor was likely to be far more difficult - to say nothing of _unwelcome_ \- for him than for me, I hurried to spare him at least the trouble of negotiating the door with his hands full, and realized that this was a faux-pas only when he gave me a look of such dreadful contempt that I nearly flinched.  But whatever he thought of my manners, I could not countenance the sight of him limping around without his cane for my benefit, so I made some inane excuse about defying convention and took his left arm. 

 

I had very little to say for myself.  I was not shy in general, but the topics on which I could speak knowledgeably were not the sort with which well-bred young women were supposed to be familiar, nor indeed of a variety likely to interest anyone but another overly passionate lover of study. Besides, my energies were mostly consumed with fending off fantasies regarding the man at my side.  They were all highly improper, and I felt that several of them posed a real threat to my maidenly virtue, which in sober truth had so far proven itself much more maidenly than virtuous.  But the silence was too much for me; I could feel my face heating as though Mildmay could _hear_ the direction my thoughts were taking.  

 

In desperation I jerked my head at the window above, where Felix and Charles were presumably still politely haranguing each other, and made a crack about our matchmaking relatives.  No credit to me, it worked: Mildmay answered with a question about Charles’s efforts to get rid of me - neatly evading my own question about his brother’s tendency to play this role - and from there I managed to wrangle out a conversation which led us around to the great flat rock that served the lighthouse garden in lieu of a bench. 

 

“Do you mind if we sit down for a minute?” I asked, carefully avoiding any hint of concern for his leg.  “I’ve, uh, done a lot of walking today.” 

 

Mr. Foxe gave me a skeptical look, but he sat down with his cane while I did my best to sink gracefully to a seat instead of flopping down like a lad. 

 

And then I asked him about cat-burglary. 

 

{  }  Mildmay  {  } 

 

I’ll go ahead and tell the truth: I wasn’t sure how much I liked Miss Vesper Riley, just at first.  But I liked her dead hocus uncle without ever meeting him, because somebody had done their best to raise Miss Riley right, and I figure it had to’ve been him. 

 

She had some of the manners of the great ladies, but she didn’t put on airs like one.  When dyed-in-the-wool flashies start falling all over themselves to be polite, you can usually bet it’s because they want something.  And I wasn’t green enough to think Miss Vesper wasn’t going to want something - more likely from Felix than from me - but I didn’t think she was a good enough actress to have pretended nice that well.  She was nice the way Cardenio was nice - not because she _had_ to be, but because she _could_. 

 

So she finagled us over to sit on this big flat rock, and asked if we could sit down, like she needed rest, and I figured she could have gone another septad mile or so without breaking a sweat, but I went along with it. 

 

And then she says, like it ain’t no big deal: "So I can’t imagine an area this sparsely populated offers much in the way of cat-burglary.  How do you keep busy these days?” 

 

I goggled at her like a kid at his first peep show, or like an especially stupid frog; Miss Vesper just grinned at me, all open and friendly. 

 

I said, “Being a cat-burglar ain’t romantic.” 

 

“No,” said Vesper. “I expect theft of any sort is generally regarded as rather sordid.  But more to the point, it can’t be _practical_ out here.  So what do you do instead?” 

 

“Um,” I said.  She’d caught me flat-footed.  I’d said what I did because of Ginevra, and all her crazy ideas about how exciting it would be to be lovers with a cat-burglar, and that was years ago, and Vesper wasn’t her.  Stupid, Milly-Fox.  Try and pay attention, if it ain’t too fucking much to ask.  “Whatever Felix says, I guess.” 

 

She kind of lifted one eyebrow.  “So you work for your brother?” 

 

“Half-brother,” I said.  “But kind of.” 

 

She nodded at that, and I remembered that Felix had told me she’d worked for her uncle, even though she was annemer, like me.  But even while she was nodding, she looked kind of distracted, like she was thinking about something that made her uncomfortable.  I wasn’t sure whether it was me, or what I could do about it if it was, so I sat there and let her think.  

 

Finally she worked herself up to it and said, “Can I ask your professional opinion on something?” 

 

I gave her the hairy eyeball for that one, even though it was my own fucking fault for telling her straight-out what I'd done before I got hooked up with my crazy hocus brother.  “Don’t got one,” I said.  “Retired.” 

 

“Oh, but -” she caught herself and I thought maybe the look on her face meant maybe she was trying to smile and not quite getting there.  “No, of course not. I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have asked.” 

 

I thought about how suddenly her uncle had died and how this Cousin Charles had turned up out of nowhere, and I figured I might have a pretty good idea what she was after.  “I don’t steal stuff no more,” I told her, just to be clear. 

 

Miss Vesper looked kind of startled and kind of mad, like I’d accused _her_ of stealing.  “Oh!” she said, her smoky-blue eyes going wide.  “ _No!_ I didn’t ... what I mean is, I think somebody _else_ might be trying to steal something.” 

 

It didn’t take much to figure who she had in mind.  “Charles,” I said. 

 

Vesper blushed and looked guilty.  “It may be nothing,” she said, gnawing at her lip.  “I mean, I don’t have any proof.” 

 

“You thought I might could get some,” I guessed, and she kind of hunched her shoulders. 

 

"I thought you might know where to start," she said, real quiet.

 

Which ... yeah, maybe.  “What’s Charles been doing?” I asked her.  “I mean, besides making an ass of himself.” 

 

Vesper sort of wriggled in her seat a little, like just thinking about it gave her hives.  “He’s started locking me out,” she said slowly.  “Of the library, the study ... everywhere but my own bedroom and the parlor.  And he _says_ he’s looked everywhere for my uncle’s will, but it sounds to me as though he’s got some pretty good reasons for not wanting it found.” 

 

“You figure he wouldn’t have left Charles much?” I said. 

 

Vesper shrugged.  “Assuming he made a will at all - which, as I said, he might not have done - then no, I don’t think Charles would be in it.  Uncle Mathias desp - didn’t think highly of him.  And without a will, Charles gets everything.” 

 

It didn’t look to me like there was much to get - I’d priced most of the stuff I saw when we went over there after the funeral; old habits die hard - and none of it was worth getting excited over.  But then again, some people get excited awful easy.  I said, “Can you pick a lock?” 

 

Miss Riley’s mouth set in a grim little line.  “I could, if it weren’t held by magic.” 

 

“Fuck,” I said, and then blushed.  Mind your manners, Milly-Fox.  Were you raised by wolves? 

 

But Vesper Riley just stared at me for a long minute, with her funny-colored eyes as big as bell-wheels, and then she burst out laughing.  “I think that just about sums it up,” she said, and since you ask, yeah, I liked the way she said it. 


	4. and count the clouds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doctrine of Labyrinths and its wonderful characters are the property of Sarah Monette. I'm just playing with them for a little while - and not making any profit.
> 
> Feedback is very welcome!

  
**CHAPTER FOUR**   


 

 

~Felix~

 

To my surprise, Mildmay seemed not to have minded his stroll in the garden with Miss Riley.  I had expected to have to add it to the long list of things I needed to (somehow) try and make up to him (which was nothing compared to the list of things I knew I would never be able to make up to him), but when he came in, he was as close to smiling as he ever came, and Vesper, hanging delicately on his _left_ arm, looked both enchanted and enchanting.  From their unwarranted closeness and the state of her hair, I was sorely tempted to conclude that they had been infringing on Miss Riley’s dubious virtue; but nearly the whole of the garden lay within full view of the parlor window, and I did not think they had been out of sight long enough to have made any significant inroads on even a harlot’s chastity. 

 

Charles Dover seemed even better pleased, though with less reason, than Vesper.  He shook my brother’s hand enthusiastically, and as the cousins - _finally_ \- took their leave of us, I noticed a calculating gleam in his eye that I suspected would bode ill for Miss Riley’s plans of escaping to University. 

 

Mildmay waited until after supper to disclose his own suspicions.  “That Miss Riley is in about as much trouble as she knows how to get out of,” he pronounced reflectively.  

 

It was not Mildmay’s habit to speak unless he had been spoken to; I paused in the act of putting away the last plate and asked carefully, “What do you mean?” 

 

He gave me a disgusted look, which probably meant either that he thought I was mocking him, or that he thought I really was dull enough to have missed Vesper’s plight completely; or, just for variety, it could also have nothing to do with me, and express rather his feelings for the indefatigable Charles.  “They can’t find the will,” he said, and I blinked.  

 

“They ... what?” 

 

“The will,” Mildmay repeated, his tone truculent.  “Can’t nobody find one.  And Miss Riley figures that might be because Mr. Dover ain’t exactly doing his part.” 

 

I remembered Mildmay’s warning that those two would prove to be problematic with a sinking feeling.  “How’s that?” 

 

My brother snorted.  “He’s locking Miss Riley out of every room but the one she sleeps in.  You gonna tell me that don’t look suspicious?” 

 

“No,” I said, thinking of Vesper’s troubled young face.  “I’m not.  But I don’t see how we can help.” 

 

Mildmay shrugged. 

 

“Out with it,” I ordered, half-amused, half-exasperated with his reticence. 

 

He shrugged again, but his eyes were light.  “Seems to me like somebody could go out there and take a look around.” 

 

I resisted the urge to throw up my hands.  “You think he’s going to invite us in just to satisfy our curiosity?” 

 

“He might invite _you_ ,” Mildmay said, “but I don’t guess you’d know what to look for.”  He looked down at his hands.  “Figured I might drive Miss Riley home.” 

 

“What?” I said, lost. 

 

“Didn’t you say she was coming back here Venerdy?” 

 

“Oh.” I collected my thoughts and tried again.  “Yes. Yes, I did.” 

 

“So,” said Mildmay, as though that explained everything. 

 

I backtracked through the conversation and found the skeleton of his plan: realizing that Vesper would return on Venerdy without her cousin - I had been politely insistent on that point - Mildmay had conceived of an opportunity to capitalize on Charles Dover’s obvious interest in fostering a relationship with us - or, more likely, with _Virtuer Harrowgate_ \- to secure entry to the house and case the joint, so to speak. 

 

“I hope Miss Riley appreciates your endeavors on her behalf,” I said.  

 

Mildmay blushed fiercely, which I took as confirmation that she’d been appreciating _something_. 

 

 

~Vesper~

 

Charles would not let me leave the house unaccompanied, so I was constrained to sally forth in the company of Mrs. Gibbs, an uninspiring companion if ever there was one. 

 

I would have been content to have started early and walked the five miles or so to the lighthouse, since the weather promised to be fine and not too hot.  But Mrs. Gibbs, though energetic enough in her own way, was not a fan of long walks, nor did she think them an appropriate occupation for young ladies.  It was not the first time I had encountered this sentiment from our staid housekeeper, but when my uncle was alive I had been able to safely ignore her scruples.  I harbored a secret suspicion that Mrs. Gibbs’s real fear was that any activity might, through some mysterious alchemy, become sexual in nature if engaged in too enthusiastically.  That would explain why she viewed everything I enjoyed with such disapprobation. 

 

So we took our dilapidated curricle and her gap-toothed middle son to drive it.  He ogled me unashamedly whenever his mother’s back was turned until I asked him tartly whether there were something in his eye, and then he left me alone. 

 

I was far too delighted for my own good when we arrived at the lighthouse and learned that not only Felix, but also Mildmay, was at home. I knew well enough that my attraction to the younger brother boded no good: even if it had not conflicted rather painfully with my own plans for the future, there was not the slightest evidence that Mr. Foxe was even remotely interested. 

 

Uncle Mathias used to say that falling in love is the best form of insanity, because it is always temporary.  “If you’re lucky,” he had usually added, gray eyes twinkling at me, “when you recover you’ll find that you still like the other person, probably in spite of your better judgment.” 

 

“Why in spite of your better judgment?” I would always ask. 

 

“It stands to reason you wouldn’t be overly fond of the person who drove you crazy in the first place,” Uncle Mathias would answer cheerfully.  “Besides, it’s in all the best literature.  Here.”  And then he would give me a book and wander off to his study. 

 

Something must have shown on my face, because Felix suddenly stepped around his desk to take me by the arm.  “... Riley? Are you all right?” 

 

“What?” I shook myself and summoned a more polite response.  “Oh. Yes. I’m sorry.  It’s just ... something Uncle Mathias used to say.” 

 

Virtuer Harrowgate blinked - probably because the conversation, had I been paying attention, had included nothing at all sentimental.  “What did he say?” 

 

I felt myself blushing wildly.  “It’s ... not relevant,” I stammered, practically choking on my own words.  “I’m sorry, I -” 

 

“Tell me anyway,” Felix suggested, with that blinding smile that was rapidly becoming familiar. 

 

I told him, shocking both Mr. Foxe and Mrs. Gibbs.  “I did say it wasn’t relevant,” I mumbled, feeling oddly defensive. 

 

But Felix did not prolong my agony.  “So you did,” he said smoothly.  “I must say, your uncle sounds like a fascinating man.” 

 

I managed a weak smile.  “I liked him,” I offered, with a feeble attempt at humor.  

  


“I can imagine.”  His mismatched eyes were kind on my face.  “Are you up to this? Truly?” 

 

I straightened my spine.  “Yes. I’m ready.” 

 

He gave me another smile, gentle but pleased, and I felt something like the sense of pride I’d experienced whenever Uncle Mathias allowed that I had mastered a difficult subject.  “Then let’s get started.  Midlmay, if you could perhaps escort Mrs. Gibbs to the kitchen for a cup of tea ...” 

 

My keeper predictably caviled at this arrangement, trying to make excuses without actually saying that she did not want to leave us alone together. 

 

“We’ll leave the door open,” I said decisively, taking Mrs. Gibbs by the arm and steering her toward the door with perhaps more energy than necessary.  “Enjoy your tea.” 

 

“Mr. Dover -” 

 

“Is not here, and does not own me,” I said, although the latter item was open to question, legally speaking.  “Nor is he paying your wages.”  Until the estate was settled, neither was I - everything was in a state of waiting - but that was a conversation I did not feel ready to have now, or in company.  “Virtuer Harrowgate and I will be quite all right poring over texts, while you drink something sustaining.” 

 

“And we wouldn’t want to bore you,” Felix added firmly.  His smile was so dazzling that I almost feared for Mrs. Gibbs; being acquainted with the male members of her family, I felt sure her constitution could not be subjected to such treatment on a regular basis. 

 

When Mr. Foxe had gently but firmly escorted her out in the direction of the combination kitchen and dining room, Virtuer Harrowgate turned to me with an entirely different smile, both less bright and more real.  I thought I could detect behind it a note of relief, but without knowing him better it was hard to be sure.  “A most devoted domestic,” he observed. 

 

“Well,” I said, trying to be fair, “she’s known me since I was practically a baby.  I suppose it’s only natural for her to feel a little protective.” 

 

Virtuer Harrowgate’s mouth twisted into wryness.  “You do seem to bring out that quality in people.” 

 

“Sorry?” I said, now genuinely confused. 

 

“My brother seems to be quite concerned on your behalf.” 

 

I remembered my conversation with Mr. Foxe two days ago and flushed a guilty vermillion.  “Oh ... no,” I mumbled, inarticulate.  I had had a stammer as a child, and thought it conquered; but now it seemed to be making a comeback.  “I didn’t mean ... I’m s-sorry to h-have troubled h-him.” 

 

The guilt swamped me; I had almost no experience with chastisement, as my uncle had been a singularly lenient guardian.  But Felix merely twinkled at me with his yellow eye - the blue one was too cloudy to follow suit - and said, “Mildmay is not easily troubled.” 

 

I wasn’t sure how to take this. I said, cautiously: “I don’t want to drag anybody else into my problems.” 

 

“Yes, you do,” Harrowgate contradicted me calmly.  “But if Mildmay wants to let you, it is no concern of mine.” 

 

I felt I ought to protest, but wasn’t sure how, or whether it was even a good idea.  At the moment, I didn't have much in the way of allies - and with friends like Mrs. Gibbs, I hardly needed enemies. Arguing with Felix under these circumstances seemed altogether ill-advised.  So instead of saying anything, I braced myself and waited for him to make the next move. 

 

He questioned me closely on what I knew about Cabaline practice, which was pretty exactly equivalent to what was in the notes I'd handed over already.  Everything I knew, I’d put in there, and everything Uncle Mathias knew, he’d put in there, and we’d both read it so many times either of us could have recited the damn thing from memory.  Finally exasperation got the better of me.  “Virtuer Harrowgate,” I said, trying to sound polite, “you aren’t going to learn anything about Cabaline wizardry from _me_.  Everything I know is already in the notes.”  I waved a hand at the quire, lying open on the desk.  “Can you tell me what you’re trying to discover?” 

 

For a second, I thought I had over-reached, and would be swatted down for my impertinence - not only for taking a tone highly improper to a girl in my position, but also for failing to demonstrate any proper respect for the station of a Virtuer.  But Felix gave me a swift, hard glance, enough to make me raise my chin - if I was going to take a curring, I wasn’t going to cower - and then suddenly grinned.  The expression made him look almost my own age, despite the threads of white in his wild hair.  “Do you perhaps mean, ‘why am I drilling you pointlessly for information you don’t have?’” 

 

“Well,” I said, keeping a wary eye on his face, “pretty much.” 

 

Virtuer Harrowgate threw down his pen, but he did not seem especially unhappy.  “I don’t know!” he declared, almost cheerfully.  “I’m not being terribly reasonable, am I?” 

 

“Um,” I said. “Not if you think I’m going to tell you anything you don’t already know - about Cabalines, anyway.” 

 

He grinned at me again.  “All right,” he said.  “Let me tell you my problem, and you tell me if you can help.” 

 

“Okay,” I said - and then winced, because that wasn’t a ladylike way to talk.  “I mean - yes, all right.” 

 

“All right,” Felix said, both echoing me and repeating himself.  “If you were helping your uncle, then maybe you know that all the different schools of magic have their own metaphors for explaining how it works.” 

 

“Not just for explaining,” I said, on firmer ground now because Uncle Mathias had wrestled with the same problem pretty regularly.  “For understanding, too.” 

 

Felix blinked at me for a moment, and then his face lightened.  “Yes!” he exclaimed.  “That’s it exactly! They take their own metaphors too literally.”  He shook his head.  “I’m trying to find a way to explain _that_ to the magicians here.  _Especially_ those at the Institution.” 

 

“Right,” I said.  “And they aren’t listening.” 

 

“Well, no,” he admitted.  

 

I almost didn’t tell him.  As far as I knew, I had nothing to gain by speaking, and I had kept the secret without question for as long as I could remember.  But with Uncle Mathias gone, there was no longer anyone else who knew, and I could not bear the secret alone, nor risk its being lost, if Charles succeeded in breaking me to bridle.  And Felix Harrowgate, an outsider himself with little stake in Grevillian practice, was the safest audience for this knowledge I was likely to find.  

 

“I think my uncle saw things differently because of my mother.” 

 

Felix blinked again. “You’ve lost me. Your mother?” 

 

“Right,” I said, and hesitated, feeling my way.  “My mother was ... foreign,” I said slowly.  “From an island, off to the West ...” I waved vaguely in what I thought might possibly have been the direction of my mother’s home.  “Not Ygres, obviously.  She looked ... Uncle Mathias said she looked very much like me.” 

 

“And you don’t look remotely Ygressine,” Virtuer Harrowgate observed. 

 

I grimaced.  “No. Or like the locals, either. I stick out like a sore thumb.  But ... anyway, my mother had the magician’s talents, though not much power.  She came here when she was a very young woman - I’ve never understood the whole story, and maybe my uncle didn't know everything, either.  In any case, she had some very different ideas about what magic is and how it works.  Uncle Mathias drew heavily on her philosophy when he was developing a framework for his book.”  I bit my lip.  “Corambis doesn’t have heresy, the way Marathat does.  We don’t burn magicians at the stake.  But ... there are other ways to silence challenges to the establishment.” 

 

“Ah,” said Felix, making a wry face.  “Like removing them from teaching posts and sending them to manage lighthouses on out-of-the-way country estates?” 

 

There was no hope at all of hiding my blush. “As for example,” I said instead. 

 

“Ah,” said Felix again.  “So your uncle found himself not so much punished as ignored.” 

 

“When he was lucky,” I said.  “He did manage to make a few of the wrong people very angry.” 

 

Virtuer Harrowgate gave me a sharp look.  “Are you saying you suspect someone had a hand in his death?” 

 

I hesitated just a second, then shook my head.  “It’s not that,” I said, although I wasn’t entirely sure.  “But if someone wanted to destroy his work, or bury it with him - this would be the ideal opportunity.  And my cousin Charles is doing a mighty good job of it.” 

 

“Damn,” Felix swore softly.  Like his brother, he evinced little compunction about cursing in my presence.  His good eye, the yellow one, practically pinned me to the wall with the intensity of its focus.  “Miss Riley.  I must ask you to be honest with me.  Are you in any danger?” 

 

I didn’t have enough practice in lying to pull off any deception convincingly.  In or out? I asked myself, and met his eyes - both of them, though I found their dissonance unnerving .  “Vesper,” I said.  “And I can take care of myself.” I dragged in a breath.  “But I ought to warn you - if you take an interest in my uncle’s legacy, it won’t be _me_ they’re after.  And the risks are very real.”  He laughed then, and I drew myself up, a reflexive habit after a lifetime of being ignored because of my sex.  “Virtuer Harrowgate -” 

 

“Felix,” he said, waving me off and granting me permission at the same time.  “And I’m not laughing at _you_ , I promise.  Just ... the more things change, the more they stay the same.” 

 

“Oh.”  I sat back, momentarily thrown.  “All right, then.  Where do you want to start?” 

 

 


	5. and told you not to cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doctrine of Labyrinths and its fabulous characters are the property of Sarah Monette. I just couldn't resist the urge to play with them a little, so this story is entirely a work of fan fiction, and I am not making any profit from it. Chapter title from "Some Kind of Home," by Thriving Ivory.

**CHAPTER FIVE**

 

[~] _Felix_ [~] 

 

Vesper had no trouble at all in grasping the rather sketchy plan we had devised for her benefit. She also had no difficulty in getting around the wrench Mrs. Gibbs had thrown in our plans. 

 

“I’ll leave my reticule,” she said readily, and I grinned in appreciation of her quickness. 

 

“Do you habitually leave a trail of forgotten belongings in your wake?” 

 

“Never,” Vesper responded promptly, grinning back.  “But Charles doesn’t know that.” 

 

“Does Mrs. Gibbs?” I asked, remembering the formidable domestic currently taking tea with my brother.  

 

“If she thinks about it,” Vesper answered.  “But she’ll also think I’m being very clever.” 

 

“Clever,” I repeated, and the doubt must have shown on my face, because Vesper laughed. 

 

“‘Accidentally’ leaving something behind is one of the few socially acceptable means of bringing oneself to a young man’s attention,” she explained.  “It works, because nobody can actually accuse you of having designs without also calling you a liar, which is even worse manners than laying snares for a man.” 

 

“And so you want Mildmay to play the unwilling suitor,” I surmised. 

 

“Well, how unwilling he wants to be is up to him,” Vesper conceded cheerfully, although not without blushing.  “Or you could do it, if you want.  Only I thought ... you know ...” She trailed off, her blush deepening almost to purple. 

 

I let her hang for a second.  “You thought what?” I asked, giving her Malkar’s predatory smile. 

 

 But Vesper Riley pulled herself together.  “That you didn’t like girls,” she said bravely.  “Although, if you wanted to put the rumors to rest, calling on me would probably make a good start.” 

 

I had known I was not a good person; baiting Vesper was a pittance in comparison to some of my sins.  But that hardly excused my behavior.  I was angry - at the provincial prejudices that made my preference the subject of sordid whispering, at Vesper for absorbing them, but most of all at myself, for failing to act with more maturity than this _child_ facing me, who for all her parochialisms could at least plead the escuse that she knew no better.  What was mine? 

 

“No,” I said abruptly.  “I will not hide what I am.  I have been and done many things of which I am ashamed, but this is not one of them.” 

 

“All right,” said Vesper, looking baffled by my sudden vehemence.  “Well, Mr. Foxe, then.  If he’s willing.” 

 

I knew Mildmay would be willing, but it was not my place to say so.  I gave her a smile and turned the conversation to what Mathias Riley had written about Cabaline versus Eusebian doctrine. 

 

[~] _Mildmay_ [~] 

 

I didn’t love Miss Riley’s lost-reticule plan near as much as Felix seemed to, but it worked out okay.  Miss Riley didn’t leave for home until about the tenth hour of the day, so I didn’t go after her that evening - didn’t want to get trapped into a supper invitation somehow, and especially not if Charles was going to be involved.  I headed out the next morning, pretty early, and took it easy on the way.  I’d borrowed a horse from Kay’s stables - I ain’t much of a rider, but riding beat walking all the way to the Riley’s place and back - and rode out the long way, taking in the scenery.  Got there around maybe the third hour of the day, still pretty early for visitors, and told their stuffy-looking housekeeper what I was there for, or at least that story about the reticule. 

 

“I can give the item to Miss Riley,” Mrs. Gibbs said, holding out her hand for it. 

 

But Vesper must have been watching for me, because just then she appeared at the head of the stairs like she was answering a stage cue.  “Mr. Foxe!” she cried, making her voice go all high and flash, so she didn’t even really sound like herself at all.  “What a pleasant - oh, I say! You’ve found my reticule!”  She glided off the stairs and over to me, smiling so bright she practically glowed.  “Thank you so much for bringing it back to me!”  I handed it over, and she took it with a happy little noise.  “And now that you’re here, won’t you let me return your favor from the other day, and show you our garden walk?  There are flower beds all around the house.” 

 

I started to say no, but then I saw what she was after, which was to show me all the windows from the outside.  It was a pretty good excuse, too.  “Sure,” I said, and Miss Riley beamed at me.  

 

“Let me get my hat.” 

 

[~]

 

I wasn’t wrong about Miss Riley’s motives in showing me around.  She gave me a good tour of the outside of the hose, including the inside layout so I could tell which windows belonged to what.  

 

“If there is a will, it’ll be in either the library or my uncle’s upstairs study,” she said.  “The library is easier, but most of his non-scholarly papers Uncle Mathias kept in his study.”  She stood still a minute, looking up at the second-story window where she’d said the study was.  “And it’s possible that he left a copy with his solicitor, in Esmer.” 

 

“Seems like it’d be a sensible thing to do,” I said.  I sized up the wall: it had vines, good for climbing but not if you wanted to be subtle about it.  A blind man couldn’t miss the way you’d tear the vines up getting in and out of there.  “What kind of a lock has that window got on it?” 

 

“Deadbolt,” she said.  “From the inside.”  From the way she said it, I figured she had an idea that wasn’t going to be good news. 

 

“Kethe,” I said.  “So we have to either break the lock, or get in from the other side.” 

 

“I don’t think the lock will break easily,” said Miss Riley.  “And it would certainly make a great deal of noise.” 

 

“Good security for a small-time hocus,” I said. 

 

She didn’t comment on _hocus_.  “I think the locks might be original to the house,” she said instead.  “In which case there were probably valuables in it then.” 

 

“What happened?” I asked, before I could stop myself. 

 

But Miss Riley didn’t seem to take it personally.  She just shrugged.  “My grandfather married for love,” she said.  “And not only did his wife bring no money, but neither of them had a head for managing what they had.  So there wasn’t much to inherit, and then Uncle Mathias never got married at all, and he wasn’t any better than his parents were with the managing.  And now I think I could do a better job, but you have to _have_ money, before you can manage any.” 

 

It wasn’t all that unusual a story, but I hated that it had happened to her.  “S’pose we find the will, and there ain’t no money?” 

 

“I can either sell the house or sell myself.” 

 

I looked at her.  “You ain’t demimonde.” 

 

“No, I’m not. I’m gentry.”  Her jaw tightened.  “When we do it, it's called  _marrying well_.  But the principle is the same - as taking a protector, I mean.” 

 

Well, you know, I’d thought the same thing, sometimes, but I’d had enough sense not to say it out loud.  “Don’t figure Mr. Dover’s gonna see it that way.” 

 

“No.”  Miss Riley sighed.  “And neither will anyone else in society.  But no man in his right mind would offer to marry me, so it doesn’t really matter.” 

 

I didn’t see why - I mean, she might not have any money, but she had about everything else going for her that you’d want in a woman - but she sounded sure, so I thought maybe there was more to the story.  

 

If she’d wanted me to know, she would’ve told me.  I said, “Guess we’d better find a will, then.” 

 

She gave me this tired sort of smile.  “So we’re back to getting in from the inside?” 

 

“Looks like it,” I said. 

 

“Well,” said Miss Riley.  “Damn it all, anyway.”  And she kicked one of the stones in the rock border, hard enough she had to hop around on one foot and cuss some more.  It didn’t sound too ladylike, but I know how that goes, and I let her be. 

 

[~ _Vesper_ ~]

 

I was grateful for Mr. Foxe’s discretion, but it made me feel even more awkward.  If he had appeared shocked by my language - words I should not, as a gently-bred young lady, even have admitted to knowing - I could have laughed him off.  But his own sober bearing forbade me to seek levity.  And his mien was rather one of concern than of shock: he was worried for me. 

 

I regained at least a fragile control and said, “The only way I can get in is if Charles opens the door himself.  And he’d never just leave me alone in there, to look.”  It was getting harder to breathe.  “I can’t - I don’t see how this is going to work.” 

 

“Might not matter anyway,” he said.  “I mean, if he’s got any sense, he won’t keep the will just lying around.” 

 

All at once, I saw his point.  I sat down, hard, on the rock border I had just abused.  “Damn,” I said again, since I had pretty well run the gamut of my vocabulary already.  

 

I had thought there might not be a will.  I had thought Charles might not search in earnest.  I had _not_ thought - a tribute, maybe, to the innocence of my upbringing at Uncle Mathias’s hands - that Charles, having _found_ the will, might keep it to himself.  Or, worse, destroy it.  “ _Damn,_ ” I said again, louder.  

 

“Y’okay?” Mr. Foxe asked me, and I drew in a shuddering breath to answer him. 

 

It ended in a sob.  “I - yeah, I ... just ... I don’t stand a chance, do I?” 

 

Mr. Foxe looked awkward, for which I couldn’t really blame him. 

 

“Dunno,” he mumbled.  He shuffled around to ease himself down beside me.  “How smart do you think your Mr. Dover is?” 

 

I choked, half-laughing through my tears.  “He doesn’t have to be smart,” I gasped, squeezing my eyes shut.  “He’s holding all the cards.  He’s a _man_ , for fuck’s sake.” 

 

I felt his twitch of surprise at my language - I had managed to hold _fuck_  back, for a wonder - but there was no one in Whallan less likely to betray me than Mildmay Foxe, and I was long past caring in any case.  I put my head down on my updrawn knees and struggled not to cry.  It felt like wasted effort, but my pride was all I had left, and there wasn’t any to spare. 

 

After a moment, I startled to feel Mildmay’s warm, long-fingered hand on my back, rubbing gently.  I hadn’t been handled so tenderly since I was a child: nobody touches a Corambin lady, except maybe to shake her hand.  I hadn’t been _held_ , at all, not since I was six and Uncle Mathias had tried awkwardly to comfort me for a skinned knee.  Mrs. Gibbs had intervened to haul me back to my room and give me a stern lecture about ladylike behavior: a _lady_ , she told me sternly, would never have been running in the first place.  

 

I raised my head and forced myself to look my champion in the eye.  “You knew it was hopeless, didn’t you?” 

 

He grunted and spoke slowly, forcing the words into clarity in spite of his scar: “Everything is, if you don’t try.” 

 

And that actually made me laugh, a little shakily.  “Can’t argue with that,” I admitted.  I was twisting my fingers in my skirt - an awful habit, that made me look even younger than my years, but I couldn’t bring myself to care.  “Sorry about the waterworks.  You must think I’m a regular drama queen.” 

 

“Nah,” he said.  And then, seeming to feel that this response was inadequate: “You’ve been having a rough time.” 

 

I knew the polite thing would be to deny it, insist that everything was fine - but I had never developed any facility for lying.  And, besides, there was no lie that would hide either the truth on my face, or that writ large in the person of Charles.  “You could say that,” I said instead. 

 

Mr. Foxe eyed me thoughtfully.  I waited, semi-patiently, until he came out with it: “Well, if your problem is that he’s a man and a hoc - a magician, then what you need is a man and a magician on your side.”  He didn’t quite smile.  “Figure I know where you can find both.” 

 

I gave up on being a lady and leaned in - not quite a hug, more like a nudge of my shoulder inside his.  “Tell me more,” I said. 


	6. like i knew i would

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix, Charles, and Vesper are not the only ones with an interest in Matthias Riley's study...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it has been a ridiculously long time since the last update! I would say "sorry," but I'm relatively sure that no one is waiting with bated breath for the next installment anyway. But if you are -- it's here! And I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> Chapter title from "You Know I'm No Good," by Amy Winehouse. (Admittedly, the song has nothing to do with the story.) 
> 
> As previously iterated, I do not own Doctrine of Labyrinths or any of its associated places or characters. This story is purely a work of fan fiction, and I am not making any profit from it. That said, I do love rewards in the form of feedback! So if the spirit moves you, leave me a line! :)

**CHAPTER SIX**

**~ like i knew i would ~**

 

 

I understood Vesper’s sense of helplessness all too well, but even when Mildmay had explained, at a length unusual for him, the predicament in which she found herself, I could not immediately perceive what there was for me –– or Mildmay, for that matter –– to do about it. 

 

I said as much.  “Vesper is right,” I pointed out.  “Her regrettable cousin Charles holds all the cards.  Even if we wanted to try and break into their uncle’s study, we could hardly do so without either triggering his alarms or making a great deal of ordinary noise.  And once we were in, there is no guarantee that we would find anything useful.  Vesper had not managed to do so, in the days before Mr. Dover made his unwelcome appearance.” 

 

“Prob’ly wasn’t thinking that way,” Mildmay observed, and I knew he was right.  as strong a face as Vesper presented to the world, it yet took no great expert to see that she was suffering from a grief correspondent to the deep affection in which she had held her uncle and guardian. 

 

“I think,” I said carefully, because I had not yet determined the cause of my brother’s unwonted interest in the affairs of a veritable stranger, “that we do not really know enough about the local customs to render her any effectual assistance at this point.  Perhaps, as Warden of Grimglass, Mr. Brightmore might be better situated to offer some aid.” 

 

Mildmay snorted at this, and I could not blame him; Kay Brightmore had proven welcome company for both of us over the past year at the edge of his estate, and I liked him well enough; but I did not think him so determined an altruist as to voluntarily involve himself in what promised to be a very messy and acrimonious affair on behalf of a girl he hardly knew.  From what I knew of him, he would be far more likely to take the view that Vesper Riley ought rather to settle down and do as she was bid, than to make an inconvenience of herself by resisting. 

 

Mildmay did not look at all happy with these musings, and I was not best satisfied with them myself, or with seeing a mind so promising as Vesper’s (with or without magic) go to waste; but no brilliant solution presented itself, and we succeeded in accomplishing nothing save giving her the relief of an occasional excuse to leave the seclusion of her house, under the guise of helping me to sort out her uncle’s eminently well-organized notes, until the day her summons arrived. 

 

*

 

It was a short note, prettily but urgently worded, and adorned with an inkblot that seemed very much at odds with Vesper’s neat script.  It was delivered by a hired boy –– the scion, it seemed, of that redoubtable retainer who had proven so difficult to dissuade from accompanying Vesper on every trip to the lighthouse –– and informed me that scholars from Esmer had come to survey her uncle’s work, and possibly to take possession of it (without permission, she did not say but I surmised), and that she had thought it likely their conjectures, and the contents of her uncle’s library, might interest me.  She emphasized that if I wished to meet these fellow thaumaturgists, I should avail myself of her invitation to dine at the Riley house expeditiously, as they seemed bent on accomplishing their errand as rapidly as possible.  The letter ended in a scrawling post script: _Charles seems excessively happy to see them.  I think they are not from the Institution._  

 

I sat for a moment, tapping her letter against my lips.  On the one hand, I had no wish to embroil myself in a plot that even now was thickening precipitately; part of the objective of the Circle in settling me at this remote lighthouse had undoubtedly been to keep me out of trouble, though perhaps not precisely of this sort.  Surely by now I had attracted enough mystery and drama for half a dozen lifetimes –– or even, as Mehitabel Parr had once said, for a romance. 

 

And yet.  The access my contact with Matthias Riley’s survivors had given me to his library and his notes thus far had convinced me that he was not only a competent magician, but a scholar of rare acumen, not to mention courage and tenacity.  He had been utterly fearless in his pursuit of the truth, and less than usually attached to his own theories, once formed.  He was himself a decidedly clairant magician; the resonances left behind wherever he worked were proof enough of that.  But his academic work had not shied from noirance, and was comprehensive and incisive enough to pose a serious danger if used irresponsibly –– or, worse, with deliberate ill intent.  If these scholars were, as Vesper suspected, not from or authorized by the Institution, then they might be anything –– from Mulkists to Mildmay’s dreaded Obscurantists, to say nothing of other cults of which we as strangers might know nothing.  And Charles might mean no more than banal harm, but he could not strike anyone with a functioning brain as capable of even the most rudimentary discernment, nor could I console myself with the thought that he might listen to his more sensible cousin.  He combined, in one unfortunate package, the most lamentable extremes of arrogance and stupidity.  

 

_Better involved now than later,_ I thought to myself and called to my brother.  “Mildmay!” I said.  “How do you feel about dinner at the Riley house?” 

 

Mildmay, who had been hovering since he saw the Gibbs boy arrive, scowled at me.  “How the fuck d’you think?” 

 

“I think you may feel better about it when you read what Vesper has to say,” I answered, and handed him the letter while I went to fetch my coat. 


End file.
